


Can I Help You With That?

by Rosie_Dayze



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Cute, First Meetings, Flirting, Mistaken Identity, Other, Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-23 14:12:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18551401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosie_Dayze/pseuds/Rosie_Dayze
Summary: You finally figure out that the cute guy at the grocery store is the one and only Captain America.





	Can I Help You With That?

If you are being completely honest, it took you a shamefully long time to recognize him. It wasn't that you hadn't noticed him. How could you not notice that sweep of golden hair? Or those big, blue eyes? Or the long, sculpted lines that stood just over six feet tall? He was easy to notice, and he'd always struck the familiarity bell for you, but you'd never been able to place him. After all, when someone thought of Captain America, they pictured the stars and stripes and the shield. Without them, he was just the attractive guy who happened to stop by the same corner grocery store around the same time every week that you did. 

It had started almost six weeks ago. You'd gotten a little more in your paycheck than usual and had decided to splurge. You'd been trying to balance your way down the sidewalk when a calm, non-invasive voice asked if you needed help. 

"Can I help you with that?" 

"I've got it, thanks," you'd said automatically. Of course, your precarious grip on the thin, recycled handles of your grocery bags had slipped. The handle had snapped. Your groceries had gone tumbling to the busy Brooklyn sidewalk. 

Embarrassed, you'd muttered to yourself as you tried to scoop everything back into your three remaining bags. Disinterested feet had swept by you as you tried your best to mentally check off everything that you'd got, hoping you didn't lose anything. You weren't rich, after all. Your great-aunt had left you her apartment. You still got some well-meaning checks from family just to make sure that you were managing to make ends meet while living in the Big Apple. 

"You missed this," that same voice rumbled gently. You looked up and found yourself staring into the most beautiful eyes you'd ever seen. They were nearly cornflower blue, with just a hint of green around the edges that made them dance on the edge of boy-next-door and heartthrob. He handed you the last item. What is was, you couldn't say, because your fingers brushed and electricity sang through your skin. 

"Thanks," you say, feeling far shyer than you ever have before. "I swear, I'm only a clutz now and then." 

His smile is perfection. A tease of gold falls over his forehead. "I won't tell anyone." 

He'd stood with the liquid grace of a gold medal athlete and held his hand out to you. His skin is warm and sure under yours as he lifts you to your feet with ease. Before you can demure, he takes you remaining bags. 

"Let me help you." 

"I can do it," you say. 

"I'm sure you can. But I can help." 

And that's how it started. You'd only planned on letting him walk you a block over. But then you'd started talking. He was so easy to talk to. He asked you if you'd lived in the area long, and what you did for a living. Baseline questions, easily answered. When you asked him the same, you couldn't help but notice a blush on his cheeks. 

"Steve. I work for the government." 

The next week you'd literally bumped into him on your way out of the store. The week after that he'd been standing outside the automatic doors, wondering if you were going to show for your grocery date. 

If he hadn't been so easy, so unintrusive, you might have been uncomfortable. But he managed to set you at ease. When you talked it felt like he was really listening. Weeks went by like this and you found yourself looking forward to grocery day more and more every week. Something developed between the aisles of bread, snack cakes, and frozen dinners. You didn't know what to call it, or how to define it. Maybe, you thought as summer started to dwindle, that it didn't need a definition. Steve, the government worker, was someone that you could talk to and be completely yourself around. It was a nice change of pace from the shallowness of social media pick-up lines and creepy DMs. What you knew was that when he asked if you needed help, he seemed to really mean it. 

You were going to give him your number. If he wanted to send you a random picture of himself, you sure as heck weren't going to complain. You'd make it clear that you'd like to see him outside of the grocery store and the twelve-minute walk home. 

When you see him standing outside, fall sunlight in his hair and a smile on his lips, your heart seems to shrink and well all at once. You are sure you've swallowed radioactive sandpaper. You can't do this. If he'd wanted your number he would have asked. He would have dropped the same hints that others have. He just wants to see you here, like this. Maybe he's married, you think suddenly. How could a guy like him NOT be married!? This was probably some weird little fling of his. Something he could tell himself was innocent when he went back home to his perfect spouse. 

"Hey," he says, reaching out his hand to you. "I've missed you." 

"Are you married?" you blurt before you can stop yourself. 

His hand stays frozen in the air between the pair of you. "What?" 

"Are you married?" You say again, struggling somewhere between embarrassed and sure of yourself. After all, it IS the only explanation that makes sense. "You haven't asked for my number. You haven't asked me out. You've gotta be married. You are too hot not to be married." 

His brow knits. A furrow wedges itself of his forehead. "You think I'm married?" 

"What else could it be?" 

His hand drops back to his hip. He hooks a thumb in his belt loop and looks away. You watch the dance of his lips as his mouth opens, and then closes, and then opens again as he struggles to figure out how to respond to you. In the ten seconds of silence you convince yourself that you've ruined absolutely everything. You picture a thousand ways you could have handled that, all of them better than what just happened. 

Your name comes out as an amused murmur as he finally turns those incredible eyes back on you. Your heart shoots into the ground as he closes the distance between the two of you. His hands cup your cheeks and his gaze locks with yours. He says your name again, this time with reverence. 

"I'm not married," he promises. His thumb skims ever so lightly on your cheek. "I'm just a little old fashioned. I like to move slow." 

You swallow hard. Your gaze darts from his eyes to his lips and back again. You are keenly aware of his palms near your chin. "This is slow?" 

The blaze of his smile is equaled only by the fluttering feeling it gives you. "Well, I don't want you to get the wrong idea." 

The kiss is slow. It's little more than a press of lips at first, an innocent sweep of satin across your mouth. For a moment you can only stand there and accept it. Then the shock of it hits your brain and you find yourself leaning into it. He makes the softest groan and his hands go from your cheeks and skim down your arms, taking your hands in his and guiding them up. Your palms settle on the broad span of his chest moments before his tongue darts against you still closed mouth. Eagerly your lips part. He tastes like mint and strawberries and something ineffable. You sink into it. A second goes by, a lifetime. His chest moves beneath your hands as his arms wrap around you, scooping you to him. You are sure you'll never need to breathe again if he just keeps his mouth on yours. 

"Excuse me, Captain America?" 

Steve jerks back. Your head is spinning. Your cheeks are pink. A kid no older than ten is starring up at the pair of you with all the eager innocent of youth. In one hand the kid holds a hand-me-down cell phone. In the other is the milk you are sure a parent sent him to fetch. 

"Yeah?" 

"Captain who?" you say, your brain still not making the connection. 

"Can I take your picture?" the kid says, holding up the phone. 

"Sure kid." His smile is bright as he kneels down to the child's height and waits for the picture to get snapped. It'll end up on Facebook, you're sure. Or Instagram. Someone might even wonder who the dumb-struck, mouth gapper in the background is. Maybe you'll be a meme. 

By the time the kid wanders off with his prize your brain finally manages to reboot. "You're...you're..." 

Embarrassed he looks away, reaching back to scratch the back of his neck. You are too distracted to even admire the fantastic things that move does for his arm. "I did say I worked for the government." 

You sputter through five different responses before you get out, "There is working for the government and being Steve 'Captain America' Rogers."

When he looks at you this time his eyes are filled with something that you didn't expect to see; worry tinged with concern. "Does this mean I don't get to ask you out for coffee?" 

"Why would Steve Rogers want to go out to coffee with me?" you demand. 

"Because your face lights up with those chips you like are on sale," he says. "Because you talk about your friends like they are your family. Because I've seen more compassion from you walking down aisle six than I have seen from almost anyone else since they woke me back up." He reaches a hand out to you. It takes you a moment to realize he is giving you a choice. 

Steve Rogers, the guy your best friend did two different school reports on; the one who did all those cheesy school videos; is holding his hand out to you. There is a weight there, and you both feel it. Taking his hand will mean that you will have some kind of relationship with an actual superhero, and all the drama that comes with it. It will mean that you will spend your night worried about whether or not he's going to survive saving the world. Taking his hand will mean that you are going to have to share him with all the people that count on him. In a matter of moments, you weigh the cons in your head, turn them over, inspect them. And then your hand, having already made the decision, takes his. 

His shoulders sag with reliefe. He pulls you into a hug and you hear the pounding of his heart against your ear. You let him just hold you in the warm, safe circle of his arms. 

"So, would you like a real date?" he asks. 

"Okay, but how about instead of coffee we pick up groceries and I can show you the inside of my apartment." You hope that sounds flirty and not weird. "We can make dinner." 

"Yeah," he says, his smile brillant, "I could help with that."


End file.
